


Simple Truths

by KeithKoenar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Cute, Fights, M/M, Nephilim, Road Trips, Romance, Slash, Soul-Searching, Spoilers, Violence, Young Love, hinted blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-01-19 07:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12405402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeithKoenar/pseuds/KeithKoenar
Summary: They are sitting in front of the candy machine. On the floor, munching on one chocolate bar after the other, because apparently they are five years old.They don't know yet, but it is only the beginning of their journey....A story full of fluff, existential crisis, and a little bit of plot.





	1. Simple Truths

**Author's Note:**

> So these two were just too cute to not ship, so here you go! I'm not quite sure if this stays a one shot or not, so let's see how it all evolves.

They are sitting in front of the candy machine. On the floor, munching on one chocolate bar after the other, because apparently they are five years old. For a second Clark asks himself how old Jack really is, but then he remembers it does not matter, he already saw the guy naked.

If he's not legal it's too late anyways.

Clark tries to concentrate on his candy bar, dismantles it from its chocolate with his teeth so that only the crunchy middle is left over. It's an old habit of his. Resurfaces when he's trying really hard to make detention a tad bit less boring, or when he's trying really hard not to stare at _the fucking naked guy from this morning-_ Jesus Christ _._

Clark steals a glance at Jack and nearly chokes on his next crunchy bite, earning a slightly startling look from the other boy.

"So..." Clark plays it off cool, clearing his throat. "You from around here?"

It's a stupid question, Clark knows that. It's the kind of question his mother would ask, he guesses he has that from her. He can see Jack trying to work around it, can see a spark igniting motion in the depth of his eyes, as if an answer would require an unimaginable amount of brainpower. When Jack opens his mouth, Clark interferes.

"It's a yes or no question. Don't overthink it, it'll make your brain hurt."

Jack smiles. He seems to like that.

"No," he answers, taking another bite off his candy bar.

 

* * *

 

 

With Clark, everything seems easier. Clark doesn't care about angels, demons and monsters, when Dean had told him of the probable cause of the next apocalypse, all Clark had done was shrug.

"There ain't nothing I could do about it," he had answered.

Clark doesn't care that Jack's a nephilim either. There is no higher power play, there is nothing Clark wants specifically. Sure, he thinks it's rad Jack can loot candy machines, or take away the pain from his stab would, but he never specifically asks for anything. He let's things happen, to him, to the both of them, without asking the quintessential questions of life or bestowing Jack with the responsibility of the world's fate.

It comes naturally. Because with Clark, everything is simple. And standing at his bedside in the hospital, or sneaking out for sweets in the shop around the corner, Jack feels he knows Clark, like he knows Castiel or his mother. No fog between them.

Just two stupid teenagers out on stupid adventures.  


* * *

 

 

They're leaving soon. And Jack is bad at keeping secrets, bad at keeping them because he does not quite know what a secret is yet, or the utility of it. So underneath the oak tree in the hospitals garden, he simply blurts it out.

"Were leaving tomorrow," he says between two gummy bears, "Sam says we've already been here too long."

Jack turns to find Clark looking at him, and suddenly he feels he knows what secrets are good for. There's a hint of panic in Clark's baby blues, only for a second, before he turns away, picks away at his candy bar, picks it apart. There's a short silence, and Jack bows his head in the oak tree's shadow, already mourning for the loss of his only true friend.

"I'm getting discharged in a week," Clark says suddenly. "Maybe I should just leave sooner. A few days more or less don't matter, do they?"

There's hope in the baby blues the next moment they meet. A breeze shakes the leaves above, a whisper breathing life into their chests, and Jack stops feeling like an all powerful nephilim and starts feeling young and stupid. There is so much more than he can explain, in that split second of life on earth, a spark that is inherently human. Clark does not recoil when the wind picks up its pace, whipping his dark hair into his eyes, or when a hint of a golden glow buzzes underneath Jack's skin. He is not afraid. He too, is young and stupid.

Under the oak tree's shadow, Clark kisses Jack, and Jack smiles.

 

* * *

 

Dean thinks it's a bad idea, says so right away.

"This is a bad idea," he says, word for word, but there are another thousand words behind that. Jack can feel it, in the agitated glow of Dean's soul, and he can't even be angry at the rejection. He rarely is these days. He let's things happen to him, just like Clark does.  
Sam pulls him aside afterwards, with his understanding, soft eyes and the crease between his brows.

"Sorry about that," he says, voice soft, hand warm on Jack's shoulder. "Dean can be a bit brash sometimes. Look, I don't want you to think we're trying to impose anything on you, but Clark... He's not like us. He doesn't have to get involved into any of this."

Jack speaks the truth, like he always does. He doesn't do lies, or secrets. "He wants to."  
"Sometimes what we want is not necessarily what's best for us." Sam's shoulders fall. "It's just that, the people around us-"

"Bad things happen to them," Jack finishes naturally. He seems to do that a lot. He can read in people's eyes. "I understand."

He does. He really does. He knows Clark is not like them, not like him. For humans like Clark, there are consequences. On an universal scale, they live a day, glow one night, and then succumb to the dark. They wither and die. It's the way it is.

"Everything lives on in heaven." The nephilim smiles. "Nothing truly dies."

But Sam only shakes his head. "It's about what happens to them before."

And Jack can't take take from him. He can't take away Sam's pain and memories and suffering, he can't take away the fear. They are both speaking the truth.

"Did you talk to him?" Jack asks, and watches Sam nodding guiltily. A grin spreads on Jack's lips. "He really is stupid courageous, isn't he?"

A short burst of laughter escapes Sam's lips. "Yeah. Yeah he is."

"Don't worry. His safest place is by my side."

Sam looks up at that, and there's a spark of recognition. For a second, they are reflecting each other.

"I'll protect him."

I'll protect all of you.

And just like that, the fog clears.

 

* * *

 

The room is warm around them, around Jack's tendrils of grace wrapping the air. He's staring at the white ceiling when Clark stirs, the sheet they use as cover shifting, and a blind hand reaches for Jack, digs into his flank. With a light groan, Clark slips closer and over Jack, covering his body with his own, drawn in by the warmth. He places a sloppy kiss on the soft curve where Jack's jaw meets his neck, and wanders further up with a lopsided grin, mashing their noses together, full of affection.

Heat rises between their chests, and Clark's sleepy eyes are on Jack's now.

"Hey," he breathes, and Jack is slightly confused.

"We never said goodbye."

Clark let's go of a chuckle at that. "That's not what I meant, it's just- a fuck it. Doesn't matter. You're right."

And Jack can't help but grin at that. "I always am."

Clark only laughs quietly again, glee in the edge of his dimples, and Jack thinks he's beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful man on earth.

When their lips meet in a kiss, Jack knows he is. And he's always right.


	2. Balancing Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I have officially no idea what I'm doing. I usually never produce this much, and this is whipped up on a whim. It's probably shit but fuck it. Enjoy?

Blood splatters, tiny shards cutting into Jack's soul. He whips around, his peripheral vision fooling him, and breathes a sigh of relief when he finds Clark pulling out a blade from an angels side. Another angel takes advantage of Jack momentarily distraction and plunges a blade into his side, as of they hadn't learnt by now that those do nothing to him, and Jack snarls at the nuisance, literally snatches the grace out of the angel and pulverises it in his fist. Another second to bring his anger under control, and then he turns to Clark, who is grinning at him stupidly.

"Nice," he comments, and Jack's chest jumps.

One second they are smiling at each other, the rest of the world forgotten, the next Clark's mouth grimaces with a silent scream, slick sound of flesh cutting into Jack's ear.. Eyes full of fear and regret, Clark trembles to his knees, revealing a smug demon.

"Didn't expect that, did you, Jackie-boy," it says, pitch black on Jack.

On the floor, Clark is wheezing, not quite dead yet, face full of terror, and in Jack's chest trembles the great void. The nothingness all had always been afraid of, the one that would implode and engulf the world, and then engulf itself. It's trying to claw it's way out of the entrapment of Jack's chest, pounds against his ribcage, and right in its center, Jack's heart sobs.

There's blood on his hands, a vessel smeared up to his elbows, and suddenly he's afraid. Of himself, of what he can do. He's ripped the demon apart, he could rip the universe apart and swallow it, he could swallow Dean, and Sam, and Clark.  
Clark.

The earth trembles and cracks, Jack screams. It's loud enough for Sam and Dean to flinch over three miles away, and their eyes, wide and panicked, look up into the brewing purple skies.

"This is it," says Sam, guilt in his eyes. "I'm sorry."

Dean wants to tell him I told you so, but instead comes a, "Don't be. We did our best."

The skies holler again, and pull on the strings of time and space until they snap with a boom. It is Jack, tearing at the fabric of the universe in his uncontrolled fury, until his blurry vision fills with an iris of red.

Lucifer grins through the rift.

"Hello, son."

It's a disgusting word. It should not be, because it is the truth, and at the same time, it isn't. An ugly head rears up inside of Jack, answering the archaic call of bloodline, a snarl rising from the depths of his throat. He is lost in the rage, lost to turmoil, can't focus his eyes, can't focus himself, can't fight the nephilim inside.

Who would have known a human's soul and angel's grace could birth such a monster.

"Yes, yes, good. Be a good boy, come to daddy. Come to daddy."

Lucifer is almost half way through the rift. Grin lewd and full of mischief, he can taste victory on the tip of his tongue. Finally. After all these years. He can taste it even on the tip of his extended fingers, the energy of his own kin that will plunge everything into oblivion, just for him. The nephilim's eyes glower red and piercing.

Jack is lost, so lost, fighting a losing war.

Victory is his.

Clark sputters a last word.

A spark of recognition. Golden fibers in the fabric of his memory, tendrils of self-woven truths, oak trees and nougat. Young and stupid. Yellow and blue.

And instead of letting the void engulf him, Jack engulfs it. Inhales its power and balls it in the fist he grabs Lucifer with, and with a roar he pulls the devil back just in time for the rift to close up and snap the fallen angels left foot off. Lucifer's enraged cry fills the air, and when Jack pushes him back, his father stumbles backwards. He concentrates his power on rebuilding the lost member, but Jack is there, hovering above him in a white light.

"I need you to give something to me, father," Jack says, spite in the word. "Something precious. Something that should have been taken long ago."

Lucifer is bleeding, almost like a mortal. He can't rebuild his foot, Jack knows. A part of Lucifer stayed behind on the other side, and even the devil himself is not powerful enough to get it back. Only Jack can.

Lucifer knows that. And he throws everything and Jack, who remains unmoved against a force born aeons ago. Only his hair flows, as if the might of Lucifer's doom was but a soft breeze.

And then, because Jack doesn't do lies, he adds.

"This is your own doing. I'd tell you to remember, but there is nothing to remember. You'll be dead."

Lucifer inhales to scream, opens his mouth, but the sound stiffles when Jack opens his mouth and engulfs it. Engulfs the scream, engulfs Lucifers grace, pulls it out like a stray string out of a piece of clothing, making the earth tremble with the inhale. There is nothing Lucifer can do to fight it, not his struggling, not his pulling hands, not his wide, panicking eyes.   
Jack drinks the devil, until the light in Lucifer's eyes goes out.

 

* * *

 

 

He's dead. Clark knows he's dead. There was only darkness, and then a light flickering at the end of the tunnel. He can't go yet. There was something else.

His eyes flicker. His fingers twitch. Pain. Only Pain. He wants to go back to ignorant bliss, can't leave yet though. The pain is worth it, he tells himself, and then he remembers. Perpetual warmth, golden eyes in the dark of the night. Chasing the day, stolen kisses and a thumb tracing the back of his hand, the length of his arm, drawing maps on his skin as if he was the most beautiful thing on earth.

He was. To Jack.

Jack.

Clark's lips move.

"Jack."

And then he's gone again.

Yet, as long as he's breathing, he's not out of the game. His body keeps on fighting. His soul rears up against the shackles of humanity. Inhale. One last time, always one last time, a rattle in his lungs, blood on his pale lips.

With his last inhale, Jack pushed the devil's spark into Clark, and created life. One life taken, one given. Such were the rules. Such was the truth. And Jack did not bend the truth, never did, he applied it, word for word.

He restored balance. And there was no balance without Clark.

Eyes fluttering open, forever, blue against yellow.

 

 


	3. Destiny's Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I have no idea where this is going, but I sure hope you do enjoy!

"What is he doing?"

"Well, uh, proposing." Clark's eyebrows jump up and he wraps his lips around the staw of his milkshake, slurping noisily. "Huh. A dozen roses and shit, I've gotta give it to the guy. He's going all in. Hey- Hey stay here!"

"But she's crying."

"It's not..."

Clark trails off and Jack understands then it's one of those moments. He does not know what yet, but he's done something wrong, he's out of the loop, as Dean would say. Sometimes, when Dean thinks he's out of ear shot, Jack can hear him mutter God damn it, not this shit again under his breath. Sometimes, Dean treats Jack as if he was deaf. Or stupid.  
Jack supposes he is, somehow.

Another look at Clark's hesitantly parted lips, and Jack casts his eyes downward. Something shamefully human blooms rosy on his cheeks.

"I- sorry. I'm being stupid."

And suddenly Clark's eyes fill with amusement. "Yeah, you are. So what. It's called being human."

Jack's eyes snap up. The loop-sided curve on Clark's lips sits graciously on his open face, honest and golden. Clark gives a non-commital shrug, and it kinda feels like an apology, but Jack does not feel like he's owed one. A small laugh shakes his shoulders, his blonde hair falling into his eyes.

"That sounds good," he answers.

Being human sounded much better than being stupid. Their fingers intertwine in a ginger touch. Clark grins around the straw of his milkshake, slurping again, and Jack watches Clark watche the newly allied couple through his aviator sunglasses. They are both crying now. Clark holds his hand steadily. Humanity makes the hairs stand in the back of Jack's neck.  
The sun is warm, the plaza buzzing, and for a second Jack understands.

 

* * *

 

Steady. Searing pain, a gunshot, and the ground underneath Jack wobbles and stumbles over his feet, the world tilting as he falls. Ruby blossoms on his white shirt, his hand comes back red and another wave hits him. Jack gasps, head spinning, and shaking hands come to push down on his stomach, blood seeping through fingers. They are not his own. The breaths come shorter now, and with perplexed eyes, Jack turns to Clark.

"Is it supposed to hurt?" he asks.

Clark smiles desperately, bites his lips as he nods. "Yeah," he croaks, "It's supposed to hurt."

Jack breathes, winces at the sharpness in the center of his chest. "Good. Fuck."

He's picked that up from Dean, the swearing. He has been using it quite a lot recently, with his new found almost mortality and all, he can feel it when he stubs his toe or gets a papercut. But this, this was something else entirely. An insisting burn like he hasn't encountered before, and through the haze of this new found sensation, Jack realises it's because it is purely physical.

He's never been hurt like this before. Usually it's words that cut this deep.

He's trembling, Clark is trembling too. Both of them are at a loss of what to do, and panic fills the air. Through the phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear, a loud and agitated voice talks Clark through some movements, but his hands are clumsy and his brain heavy with fear.

There's blood, so much of it, on his hands, in his nose, pouring out of Jack. Clark tries to swipe his curls out of his face, smearing his forehead dark with it.

Jack's lids flutter, Clark's phone clatters to the ground.

"Stay with me, please just, stay, concentrate. Keep your eyes open, Jack, don't- Sam will be here any minute now."

Desperation in the voice, coarse and tight. But Jack is so, so tired all of the sudden, and all he wants to do is to go to sleep. What's the worst that could happen?

"Please."

Clark is begging. Praying, quiet whisper piercing through the spot between Jack's eyes, a remnant of his powers reaching out, holding onto the words. Icy blue eyes flash, rummage through his chest, seeking, but they are not Clark's, they are much more wise and powerful.

They find his core, grab it, squeeze it back to life.

A tense spark courses through Jack, electricity in the tip of his fingers, and nails dig into his stomach as he gasps, heart going a hundred miles an hour. The golden ring of his grace finds it's way into his iris, to the surface, and pools seething hot where his and Clark's hands touch.

Jack screams, and then there is darkness.

 

* * *

  
"This is _not_ okay," Dean hisses, and Sam flinches.

They are talking about him, pretending he is not right there, as they always do. And this time, Dean is pissed.

"Come on, it wasn't on purpose."

Sam. The voice of reason. The big brother Jack never had, and something about that bugs Dean. There is a twitch in his lips, and a jump in his shoulders, his clenched fists almost look ready to sock Sam, knock some real reason back into him.

"Look at him! Look!" he shouts, gesturing through the hospital's window. "He did this! Jack did this."

Jack thinks he's right. He hates Dean for it.

He hates himself.

The machine Clark is hooked to beeps once as his chest rises and falls with a laboured breath. A tightness wells up in Jack's throat and nausea rises, and he can't take it anymore, the chair next to Clark's bedside screeching as Jack shoots up. The door slams shut behind him. His eyes flit between Sam and Dean, begging. 

"We have to do something."

Dean grimaces then, closes in on him, and the few inches he has on Jack seem like miles. "We? You did this! I thought you weren't supposed to be able to do any of this freakish stuff anymore, seriously. Well, what are you waiting for!"

There is rage in the depth of Dean soul. He likes Clark, and Jack suddenly feels like Dean had predicted all of this a long time ago, the first time Jack had laid eyes on the blue eyed pretty boy. They are fighting a loosing war again, only this time there is nothing Jack can do. He can not protect them anymore. He can not even protect himself. 

"Things are different now," Jack says earnestly.

Dean closes his eyes, the wish that Jack was able to spin a lie hanging between them. He pinches his lips and says, "You know what, I'm done. I'm out of here."

The words echo as Dean turns his back to walk down the corridor. There are so much more words brewing inside of Jack, yearning to break free, all silenced when Sam pushes a big hand on his shoulder, shaking his head. The last thing Jack sees of him are dissapointed eyes, and the finality of his broad back as he walks away.

Loneliness fills the corridor. It is not quite over yet, but it kind of is.

 

* * *

 

 

"What the fuck is wrong with you!?"

"With me? Christ, Clark, are you blind? He doesn't control this anymore, he doesn't control anything anymore! And one of these days, it's going to kill both of you!"

"It's always somebody else, isn't it? Anything to pretend you're not responsible."

"I've been responsible my entire life! For everything and everyone!"

"Yeah, except for Jack, because he's the only thing you can't control."

"Get out."

"Gladly. Oh and by the way, fuck you."

 

* * *

  
There's still a faint pain everytime he moves about, a small reminder that he is still healing on the inside.

"What?" Clark asks.

Jack shakes his head, takes a second to gather himself. The sting is more than a reminder of an old battlewound, it's a reminder of his mortality. And he has no idea how to deal with it. In the small one room flat they share since their fallout with Dean, Jack moves about for a bit, puts a mug in the kitchen sink, leans against the counter top.

He can barely look at Clark, all he can see now is the burned scar running up his hands. All he can see is guilt.

"It's just... Weird." A pause. His hand comes up to his stomach. "I didn't think it would get worse afterwards. I don't know what I expected, but I didn't think... defeating Lucifer would cost me this much."

"You didn't die."

Jack flinches. Casts his stare away. "Maybe I should have."

"Maybe I should have too," Clark suddenly snaps. "But I didn't. You brought me back."

Jack knows what remorse feels like then. Not about Clark's words, or the fact that he did pull him back from the brink, no, it was remorse for his own words. Remorse for the truth they carried. He should be dead, he can feel it deep in his bones. It's the reason why he's so weak.

"I'm not important anymore, Clark," he says, hair falling into his eyes, the countertop's marble cool against the palm of his hands.

That too, is true. A fulfilled destiny left nothing but a life without purpose. Without purpose came the loss of the few friends he had, the loss the butterflies in his stomach everytime he looks at Clark. Maybe this was it.

For the first time in his life, Jack actually wished for his powers back.

A presence near his, pressing against him, and Jack closes his eyes, lets himself be taken away by the warm fingers tracing his face. A breath hits his lower lip, moist and wanting, and on their own accord, his fingers find skin. For a moment, they share a bubble, throwback of a time when they were ignorant and young.

The last two years really have taken their toll.

"Talk to me."

"I can't. I want to die. I want my power back."

"We can get it back."

"No we can't."

Silence engulfs them. Clark is still peppering Jack with little meaningless affections, lost to the melancholy of their desires. Jack thinks back to that day, Lucifer's energy powerful in his lungs, Clarks limp body in his arms. He remembers what it took him, how the blunt of his grace was ripped from his core as he gave it up. A balance tipped to their favor. A life for a life.

He's starting to get drunk on the memory, swaying softly in Clark's embrace. Glimpses of his fathers grace pouring out of him, purified, and he goes back further through time, through his apprenticeship under the Winchesters, through the shared moments when he and Clark snuck out in the middle of the night, through the ice cream clerk's pearly white smile. He goes back through all the moments of kindness, tries to find something to hold on to.

Desperate, he goes back until his memory clashes with the one of his mother, and then another rises, almost palpable. A grace connecting to his, caring, almost alive. Too vivid in his memory to be truly faded, and he can see them again, those blue eyes that he has never met.

Jack opened his eyes, realisation hitting him. Breathing against Clark's face, immersed in the warm morning light, Jack realised he was more than a nephilim.

He was a thief.

And there was still one last thing he needed to steal back.


	4. Chapter 4

They left the apartment one day. Simply got up and left everything behind, their full fridge, their clothes, their pictures and memories. Jack loves Clark, but he couldn't do it anymore. Play pretend, white picket fence as Dean used to call it. It hurts to think of Dean. It hurts to think of anything before they had tried to settle down, anything before the fall.

Somehow, he and Clark left behind a piece of themselves in that dingy little flat in Kansas.

They build something else on the road. Find each other again, live off candy bars and watch the stars. Clark sucks him off on the side of the road once, and all Jack can think about is the blissful warmth around his cock, the soft hair he's buried his hand in. It's been a while since he's had singular thoughts. It's refreshing.

He feels young again. Not like a being older than time, no, he's twenty and brash and stupid, and Clark is too. They've tried to play adults, but it wasn't a good look on them, at least not better than Clark's grin as he sits up and swipes at his lip.

When Jack pulls back from the kiss, he can taste himself on his tongue. Clark's eyes are so blue he could die.

"I love you," he whispers for the first time in long.

Clark's grin twitches with something almost depressing, as if he had not expected to hear those words ever again. He melts into Jack's hand. "Me too. I love you too."

Jack chokes.

"I just wanted to be normal."

"Normal doesn't work for people like us."

Soft eyes, soft lips, soft voice, sometimes Jack thinks Clark is made of cotton candy. He's almost afraid to take a bite and have it melt away on his tongue.

Almost.

His mouth is watering in anticipation, and Clark moves forward for another bite.

 

* * *

 

He repeats the phrase, months later, when he stands face to face to Dean in a dusty motel room. Dean musters him with stone etched into his features, the kind you meet when you've barely given any news in the last three years, yet a trickle of understanding cracks the surface in the shine of his eyes. 

Something akin respect.

"You sure?"

"Do we look like we're joking?" Clark throws in, arms crossed. "Tell me how long it's been, how often you've tried to bring Castiel back. It's the only chance we got."

"What if the spell is too powerful, huh? Jack might die." Cash and in your face, Dean doesn't do bullshit. Neither does Clark.

"We're going to do this with or without you."

Dean looks between them with the kind of irritation that says that he's not used to this, being expendable. Jack and Clark technically don't need him, they want him to tag along. There's a difference. Dean musters Jack, who has been strangely silent the last two minutes.

The boy is calm and serious.

It stings how much it reminds Dean of Cas.

"Alright. Sam is outside."

Tension runs visibly through Clark, eyes jumping onto Jack, and Dean had expected anything but for the nephilim to bounce up and go immediatly for the door. By the time Dean and Clark reach the door, Jack and Sam are already standing face to face, tension rising.

Jack remembered a time he had trusted the man in front of him. It came to him, memories falling into golden dust once he remembers how Sam had used him. And Jack is angry, at Sam, at himself for having been young and stupid. He does and does not regret his actions, caught in between fighting and apologising to Sam.

Sam moves, only an inch, as if to open his arms and wrap Jack into a tight hug, and then hesitation flashes on his face and he freezes. Deep down, Jack can see the tiny spark of fear that slashes his pride.

He never wanted to be feared. He knows he has been feared before, by strangers afraid of the strange. Sam wasn't one of those, he should not be.

"I'm sorry Jack," says Sam,

"No, it's okay," mumbles Jack into Sam's shoulder, closing his eyes. "I understand."

"I've missed you bud," chokes Sam, undoubtedly ridden by guilt.

"I missed you too, uncle Sam."

Jack thinks back at how Sam had betrayed him, used him as a tool. Thinking of Castiel, and the pull he felt towards this practically stranger, he understands what Sam must have felt. The desperation, the loss of a parent. He understands why Sam had hoped and nursed Jack to bring back his mother.

And he let's it go.

Sam presses him closer, and there is an odd wetness on the top of Jack's head when the tall man kisses him there.

 

* * *

 

It's not time yet. Jack won't say why, but apparently it's not time yet, and Clark takes it like a truth such as 'the sky is blue'. As always, unprecedented trust. Jack's words are woven into the fabric of their life no questions asked, Clark pulling them apart quietly to work the intricate patterns, big Blue eyes full of curiosity and nimble fingers.

Clark used to say his step father called him a slacker too many times to count, a good for nothing, lazy slacker.

"He wasn't wrong, of course," he used to say. "I like what I do. I just don't need more, y'know?"

Jack doesn't either. They go city hopping, sometimes they sleep in the wild, sometimes in the car, sometimes a charitable soul let's them crash on the couch.

There was an older woman once, with a big house full of furniture thrice her age and bright designer lamps, and she gives them a room to themselves. The food is amazing, the bathtub spacious and filled with godly rose scented bubbles, and every object, sculpture and painting in the house has a story. It practically reeks classy bourgeoisie, but the older woman laughs too loud at Clark's crassy jokes and gives too easily.

It must have shown once, as Jack's eyes widened when she poured him a glass of whisky that looks far too expensive for the boys to ever afford. She gives him an amused look and winks.

"Good things are made to be shared," She says, a twinkle in her eyes.

Clark laughs, and she laughs too, both just a tad too loud, both showing almost too much teeth.

Jack smiles bashfuly and thinks that she too, doesn't need more. But she sure deserved it.

 

* * *

 

Clark's still sleeping upstairs. The breeze blows and shakes a few orange withering leaves from the trees, Jack watches them sail downwards in spirals, landing in the grass and among the rose bushes. He is fixated, Christa's steps behind him unnoticed until a gentle hand settles on his shoulder.

He looks up at her, lips parted, though without intention to speak. The edges of her eyes crinkle.

"They're pretty, aren't they."

Jack looks back at the trees full of awe and nods. "Yeah."

À silence settles over them, Christa's thumb tracing motherly circles over Jack's shoulder. Another breeze, swaying branches, falling leaves. They watch the trees go through their cycle of life and death, Jack's chest unfolding.

"You both remind me of my two daughters," She says, her slight german accent never wavering, never interrupting the softness of her voice. "They're good people."

"They have that from you." No hesitation. After all these years, Jack still hasn't learned to filter his words.

"Thank you, Jack. That is very kind."

For once, there is a tinge of melancholy in her soul. Jack tries to reach out, poke at it, feed it some life, but to no avail. He guesses some wounds are too deep to stitch back together, and for once he doesn't feel guilty. Christa had that effect on him.

"I think it's time," She says.

"Yeah. I think so too."

 

* * *

  
"It's time."

Clark nods. "Okay."

It's time and the sky is blue. Clark calls Dean and squeezes Jack's hand.

 

* * *

  
There's a puffy white cloud everytime Clark exhales, shuddering into his scarf. He's wrapped in a few layers of clothing, yet everytime the snow crunches under his boots, à shiver runs down his spine. Jack on the other hand, is barely dressed. Pullover and jeans, but ever since his powers started seeping back he seems to never get cold, ever. Clark rubs his hands together, tries to friction some warmth neck into them, and then Jack is taking them, soothing tendrils wrapping room temperature gloves around the stiff fingers.

Clark looks down at their hands, quietly wondering. This is more than just warming hands, this is visible, and effortless.

"You couldn't do that before," he states.

"I don't think so, no."

"You're stronger."

"Seems so." The glow of his golden eyes reflects in Clark's baby blues. There's an universe inside of them. one of his hands comes to rest right under his ribcage, where ugly scars lay. "It doesn't hurt anymore. It's the butterflies. I get butterflies when I see you, and the world."

Clark smiles a bit at the child like innocence in the words, yet can't help himself. "We haven't seen the world yet."

A small part of him wants to persuade Jack not to do this. They could travel again, go far away from this. He knows no where would be far enough though.

The image of Jack's blood on his hands is etched into his memory.

Clark swallows the lump in his throat. "I'm scared."

Jack lowers his head. "Me too."

He falls into Clark's arms, and Clark holds him, tight and steady. He doesn't ask, simply undoes the golden strings and weaves into the fabric.

The impala crunches to a halt in the gravel behind them, and when they separate with a small kiss, Clarke is less scared. Things will happen as they will happen.

They chose this. At least they chose this.

 

* * *

 

The tibetan concoction is still bitter on his tongue when he's surrounded by the empty. It's not black, it's not dark, it's just sudden and empty. Jack blinks a few times, narrows his eyes without being sure he's really looking into the distance, tumbles and turns on his own feet. He's confused and irritated and focused on the task at hand immediately, the only truth in this strange space.

"Castiel? Castiel?" A few staggered steps and he's already growing desperate. "Father?"

A rumble rises from his chest at that, low and dangerous and stinging. Jack's hand reaches up to clutch at his shirt, nails digging into his skin.

"Father?"

Pain explodes behind his eyes, enough to knock his breath away violently and Jack gasps and stumbles to his knees, coughing, trying to push against the vice around his lungs. There are claws inside of him, and an anger that is not his, and the familiar energy is picking at the cage of his chest, wants ro break free

It's the echo of a damp, guttural scream that flashes Jack back to the moment he had drunk the devil.

His eyes snap open and a hundred feet underneath, there are two figures. Identical, from above nothing but dark tufts of hair and beige coats, but Jack knows immediately. One of them is Castiel.

The breaths come short and rattling, the call for Castiel reduced to nothing but a broken whisper, and Jack is choking on the pain, helpless. He screws his eyes shut, fights the thing trying to break out of him, and he grits his teeth, gathers his grace in his chest, pushes back.

"Castiel!"

No flinch, no indication whatsoever from either of the figures underneath. He screams again. They can't hear him. And in his frustration, Jack pulls back and punches, hitting the invisible wall, an echo resonating like a gong.

Pain in his chest, pain in his fist. Again and again, and after the third time the see-through ground shatters, and Jack is falling through time and space, hitting an non-existent floor with resonating thud.

He has no time to dwell on this new kind of pain when his chest convulsed again, and he coughs, through grit and blood forces his eyes up. Two Castiel's. But one of them is wrong.

"Jack?"

"Another one?!"

The one on the left. The one that recognises without knowing, the one full of passion and surrounded by a bright glow. Jack gasps, and then soft baby blues remind him.

A life for a life. He wonders if there's enough left.

His hand finds his chest, his feet find the wobbling ground, and then he's standing through the daggers, drawing the energy into his hand. Castiel seems to unfreeze, hurry to his side in a few strident steps, eyes full of fright and awe. He slips under Jack's arm, props him up with shaking hands. His mouth moves, something Jack can't hear as his vision blurs and wavers to the other one. The wrong Castiel, who takes a wary step back at the glowing golden eyes, the energy radiating off this being.

Jack's hand travels up, scratching in his throat, tendrils reaching into his mouth to pull, pull the matted ball of smoke and wrap it, hissing and spitting at the contact. Another second, and he's looking at the thing in his palm with fading eyes. It calls his name one last time.

He collapses, the ball slipping from his grasp, and everything else collapses too.

When they hit solid ground again, it's dirt, and Jack didn't know he had missed dust until he breathes it. Hands on his shoulders, on his face, touches like feathers. Jack wheezes a breath, but- fuck- he's breathing.

Worried eyes, baby blues, his baby's blues.

"Jack, Christ, Jack what happened."

Thunder claps outside of the hangar, the roof bangs and chatters. Jack reaches up, arm numb, cuts and knuckles open, and he smears a bit of blood on Clark's cheek when he touches there. He smiles weakly.

"Left 'im a present."

Back the empty, the wrong Castiel is looking at Lucifer with bristling annoyance.

"And who the _fuck_ are you?"

 

* * *

 

Christa doesn't look out of her element at all admist the rusting scraps. She could have, in her fancy pantsuits and shiny pearls, but when she brings Clark a beer, leans against the dirty counter and greases up her clothing without a care in the world, Clark thinks she may know the insides of a garage shop better than she lets on. 

She comes by twice a year, once in July, once before christmas, ever since Clark an Jack have moved in into Bobby's place.

Clark doesn't know Bobby, but Jack says he's a good man.

"Yeah, as good as a man with a creepy bunker can get," Clark had muttered under his breath, turning back to the marinara.

Behind him, Jack's laugh rung clear and free, and Clark smiled to himself. He loved making Jack laugh, and he made him laugh quite often lately.

It was calm, most of the time. They worked the shop, they went on the occasional roadtrip, ganked the occasional supernatural being. There weren't a lot left nowadays, after they brought Castiel back things seemed to balance out on the supernatural scale, and who knows if it had anything to do with them, or Jack.

It doesn't matter anymore. When Clark sees the edges of Jack's eyes wrinkle up with a laugh, nothing else matters anymore. They will grow old together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I guess this is the end?


End file.
